


Between Quidditch and Deductions

by literary_shitstorm



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Hogwarts, Coming Out, Family Issues, Fluff and Angst, Gryffindor John Watson, Hogwarts Fifth Year, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, John Watson Has Issues, M/M, McGonagall's still at Hogwarts cause she's an eternal bad bitch, Quidditch, Ravenclaw Sherlock, Sibling Rivalry, Slytherin Mycroft, Teenagers, Teenlock, anger issues, y'all John and Harry have issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-09
Updated: 2019-11-09
Packaged: 2021-01-26 08:18:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,252
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21371041
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/literary_shitstorm/pseuds/literary_shitstorm
Summary: “I need you to teach me how to play.”“Play what?” Watson scrubbed a hand over his face in an obvious attempt to remove the sleep from his eyes and then tugged it back through blond tufts in a relaxed manner that made frustration bubble in Sherlock’s chest.“Oh, use your brain,” he bit back, “Quidditch. I need you to teach me how to play Quidditch.”Or, the time that Sherlock befriended John Watson, presuming him to be a dumb jock and bit off a whole lot more than he could chew in the process.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 12
Kudos: 244





	Between Quidditch and Deductions

_Damn Mycroft and his condescending snark_, was all that bounced around Sherlock’s head as he lingered outside the Gryffindor Common Room whilst waiting on a, apparently, tardy student to make an appearance outside the painting. Of course, he knew the password- he knew the passwords for all the common rooms- but he didn’t think John Watson, the Fat Lady or the entirety of Gryffindor house would appreciate him barging in as he pleased. That was at very least to be done under the cover of darkness and he was painfully aware of the light blazing through the opposing windows. _Merlin, has Watson ever heard of the word’ punctuality’_. No, if his attendance during History of Magic was anything to go off of. Sherlock was starting to get antsy, breakfast would be over soon and he would be forced to retreat from his sturdy position, one he would begrudgingly admit it took him hours and sleepless nights to convince himself to take.

Finally, the groan of the painting opening snapped him back to consciousness and he, as suspected, was met with the sleep-riddled yet still accusatory glare of a certain John Hamish Watson who had obviously just woken up, eaten a chocolate frog in a rush and worn his shirt from the previous day. He looked _wrecked_. That, however, was no concern of Sherlock’s; he was here for one purpose and one purpose only. He tried to ignore the, quite frankly, disturbed look that seemed to be carved into the other boy’s face and instead cleared his throat and began with purpose,

“You are the Captain of the Gryffindor Quidditch Team, are you not?” He tried his best to sound amble, even fixing a smile on his face, but it was only when his words hit the air between them that Sherlock realised how bitter they perhaps could sound to another. No bother. If what he could deduce about Watson’s muggle home life was anything close to the truth (of which there was no doubt), the other boy would be no stranger to harsh words and scathing comments. _Obviously this is going to take a bit of prompting_.  
“Hello, yes, it is in fact, morning. You are the Captain-“

“Yes,” Watson responded, pausing with a newfound look of critical intrigue in his eyes, “Yes I am. What’s it to do with you? I’m not in the mood for your antics, Holmes. Not this morning, I’m already late for-” he paused again to ponder, before realising, “History of Magic. Fair enough, what it is you need, Holmes?”

“So predictable,” Sherlock forced out in a muttered breath, “I need you to teach me how to play.”

“Play what?” Watson scrubbed a hand over his face in an obvious attempt to remove the sleep from his eyes and then tugged it back through blond tufts in a relaxed manner that made frustration bubble in Sherlock’s chest.

“Oh, use your brain,” he bit back, “_Quidditch_. I need you to teach me how to play Quidditch.”

The other boy’s eyes seemed to widen comically and he pounded on his chest in an attempt to stop a forthcoming coughing fit,  
“No offense, Holmes, but you don’t exactly seem like the Quidditch type. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you at a game.”

“You would be right,” Sherlock snapped in response, “I don’t have time for such trivial matters.”

Watson furrowed his brows, making a few miscellaneous hand gestures to convey his frankly infantile confusion before stuttering out a few breaths and an exasperated,  
“Why don’t you just ask someone from the Ravenclaw team?”

“Everyone knows Gryffindor has the best team in the school, I’m not deluded. I figured that if I wanted to learn I may as well go to the top.”

“Don’t you think people will think it’s a bit odd,” Watson chewed on his lip, forcing Sherlock to push out a fair few unwanted thoughts out of his head, “A Gryffindor teaching a Ravenclaw how to play Quidditch?”

“Do you care what people think?”

“Not particularly but-“

“It’s settled then,” Sherlock finished, overall, pleased with the result regardless of how agonizing it was to extract it.

“Just hold on a minute it’s not as simple as-“

“First lesson tonight; meet me on the pitch at ten? Case closed. I’ll see you then. I thank you _profusely_ for making me late for Potions.”

With that, Sherlock left John Watson gaping outside the Gryffindor Common Room with a smear of chocolate over his chin.

* * *

Sherlock began to fear that Watson wasn’t going to show up after he had been lingering on the outskirts of the Quidditch Pitch for half an hour. He wasn’t complaining, it had given him long enough time to smoke his cigarette all the way down to the filter and watch the ash dribble into the evening wind, however, Watson was the (reluctant) best of a bad bunch and it would be a thorn in his side to have to find a new coach. These thoughts were soon quelled when his eyes landed on a mop of blond hair making its way towards him in the last of the sunlight. _Gryffindors_, he scoffed, _can always rely on them to do the noble thing_.

It didn’t take Watson more than two minutes to reach him after that. He had seemingly chosen to forgo his robes in favour of a much more _muggle_ pair of joggers and a worn _rugby_ (he made a note of research the word later) hoodie.

“You weren’t joking,” he had an infuriating smirk on his face; “I was half expecting to get here and be alone.”

“Oh,” Sherlock made sure his response was as snide as he could muster, “and what would have you of done in that instance?”

“Never underestimate the merit of private practice,” The other boy was either unexpectedly smart or infuriatingly stupid based on his lack of reaction to Sherlock’s blatant taut. He was somehow inclined to go with the former.

He watched with scrutiny as Watson strolled past him with an air of ease, pulling a key from within his pocket that could clearly be used to open the Gryffindor supply room; _thank Merlin, we’re finally getting somewhere_. Sherlock felt he stood corrected when Watson returned with not two brooms, but instead a small handheld chalkboard and a suitcase of sorts. The overall vibe was shabby, from the way the wood of the board was splintering at the edges to the way the buckles on the case didn’t seem to close as effectively as they once had. The chalk was practically withering away in the boy's palm but he didn’t seem to care, instead settling himself comfortably next to one of the stands and motioning with a hint of playful aggression for Sherlock to come and join him. He had no time for antics and he wasn’t going to be messed around by some halfwit Gryffindor who obviously thought he had all the time in the world.

“What are you doing, Watson?” He found himself grumbling, “I thought you were going to teach me how to play Quidditch-“

“I am teaching you how to play Quidditch. There’s more to it than just stepping on a broom and taking off,” he halted as he pulled an adorably (_stop it_) inquisitive face, “You’re great at Potions, right? You were in my class in 3rd Year. It’s like practical and theory. If you want me to teach you to play, I will, but I’m not going to half-ass it, okay?”  


As much as Sherlock found he was unsatisfied by that answer, albeit a little bit endeared, he collapsed his legs in front of his counterpart and made some kind of vague gesture for the lesson to begin. The smile that he was met with threw him off guard, a warm grin full of teeth and not even the slightest hint of mocking that most people met him with. John Watson had already shown himself to have more merit than the masses that wandered around Hogwarts- he was genuine and passionate. Good qualities for a teacher, Sherlock decided.

He watched with rigorous intent as Watson brushed his hair back against his skull, glowing in the late summer sun,

“Right, we’ll start with the positions. I’m one of the Chasers which means that it’s my job to-“

* * *

During the past weeks Sherlock had done more physical activity than he was sure he’d done at any point in his life previous to the present, and it seemed that every inch of his body was decorated with different shades of bruising. He discovered quickly that he had found a false sense of security within Watson’s now few and far in between theoretical lessons and that, unfortunately for him, Watson was a firm believer in teaching practically. However, he hadn’t been totally merciless; on days that he could see Sherlock limping through the corridors he was sure to factor in a chat about strategies and different player skills sets.

It felt odd to admit, but their relationship had also developed somewhat and, even worse, Sherlock had to admit that perhaps Watson wasn’t the blundering idiot that he had previously accredited him as. Even within their one on one sessions, he didn’t need deduction to figure out that the boy was a fierce competitor with an unrivaled talent for the game- in fact; Sherlock felt that Gryffindor’s copious victories over the recent years might just stem from the young captain on his merit and leadership. At first, it had almost amused Sherlock to imagine Watson trying to cope with the wrath of older students who would probably feel entitled to his leading role, but after just a few lessons he could understand what his peers followed him so severely. No doubt, he was Gryffindor through and through, but Sherlock couldn’t bring himself to hate the idea.

They had long since abandoned the idea of meeting on the field in the now enclosing darkness, instead opting to meet outside the Room of Requirement after last period and go from there. They couldn’t practice until night fell, a phenomenon occurring earlier and earlier each day as autumn drew to a close, so it was no trouble for either of them to converse in the time they had whilst the sun bled orange over the skyline.

It was only when he was making his way from Arithmancy slightly early (he finished the work and his professors had long since stopped trying to prevent him from leaving class) that he stumbled upon something that he was quite sure he wasn’t supposed to. He was a Ravenclaw for a reason, and despite what most would consider ‘better judgement’, he paused around the corner with the intent of listening in on whatever interesting conversation was going on between a student and a teacher, he assumed. There was no such thing as too much knowledge.

“Mister Watson, I understand that things have been difficult for you at the moment-“ _Ah, McGonagall then- and John_. If it was hard for Sherlock to come to grips with the idea of privacy beforehand, then he was screwed now. He was dancing the fine line between a thirst for dirt on his peers and actually caring. Mycroft would be positively ashamed.

“No…” John’s voice trailed off almost meekly before gaining some form of strength, “No, you don’t understand.”

“Mister Watson, I have been a teacher for longer than you have been alive and I have seen pretty much every selection of problems one can offer. I suppose I cannot understand, no, but I can try my darndest to support any student going through troubles, can I not?” She placed what Sherlock assumed would be a comforting hand on his shoulder as the boy he knew to be so strong offered nothing but a mere nod in response. “I am going to be having a conversation with some other professors to see where we need to move forward, okay? And please, Watson, if you have any problems come and talk to me. Good day now.” And with that she was gone and John was alone in the corridor.

Even the great Sherlock Holmes jumped back in surprise when John Watson drove his fist into the wall in anger.

Despite being prideful to a point of arrogance, Sherlock knew when to give people (ones he cared about anyway) a few seconds to regain their composure; he concluded that this was probably one of those situations. He waited exactly 120 seconds before he turned the corner to meet his counterparts eyes, relived to see that the punch had seemingly drained at least some anger from his features. However, there was an unmistakable fire to his eyes that burned cold from even a distance away and upon close inspection there was a vibrant bruising dancing across his knuckles.

“You’re ready to go, yeah?” Watson’s hoarse voice broke the silence between the two of them.

He led and Sherlock followed.

Watson barely said a word when they reached the pitch, only fumbling with the supply closet and pulling out his own broom, a second-hand Nimbus 1700 given to him by his teammate _Graham_ (?), and luckily, he was allowed to practice on Gary’s current broom- a Firebolt. Now he may have had no knowledge of Quidditch, but even he had heard the ramblings of infidels about the splendor of the Firebolt. When he had tried to ask, Watson had simply insisted that he keep the better broom to practice on and that he was attached to his own, no matter how war-torn it may appear.  


In spite of his subpar equipment, John Watson was marvel once he hit the skies. It was as though he was born to be there. The build of broom made no difference once he began cutting through the wind accelerating at breakneck speed as fast as any Seeker- _faster_. When he was flying without the weight of tactics and battle plans, Watson seemed to soar, lacking any of the precision needed to play the sport, but even Sherlock could appreciate the beauty of the motion. One could barely make him out from in the sky, arcing and swathing between the clouds, diving down towards to ground with such ferocity that it made a lump grow in one's throat only to zoom straight back up towards the atmosphere at the very last second. He was an adrenaline junkie to say the least.  


It took almost half an hour for Watson to retreat from his place of solace; it hadn’t been a problem, he had simply split the time between studying the movement the player (gaping at John Watson, more like) and mulling over the Advanced Potions work he had been given that morning.  


“Sorry about that,” Watson ran a tense hand through his windswept hair having finally placed his mud-splattered trainers back on solid ground, “I don’t really think we have much practice time left after that.”  


“No bother,” Sherlock sniffed, “I needed a day off anyway and my legs are absolutely killing me.”  


That brought a smile to the other boy’s rosy cheeks, something he didn’t think he should be so proud of,  


“Who knew the infamous Sherlock Holmes would be such a baby?” Watson dropped himself onto the grass beside him, “Anyway, I never did get around to asking you- why did you want me to teach you how to play?”  


Sherlock cast him a mischievous glance out of the corner of his eye before answering smugly,  


“I had a bet with my brother.”  


“Ah,” John fake gasped with an all-too-amused grin, “Sibling Rivalry, I see. Would I know who he is?”  


“Mycroft?” Sherlock questioned innocently, knowing all too well the turn these conversations tended to favor. “Depends how often you read the papers.”  


“Holy shit,” John leaned forward as he began to choke, “Your brother is Mycroft Holmes-“  


“I thought it was obvious.”  


“Like the Ministry of Magic-“  


“It really isn’t hard to figure out. Even for you.”  


“Like Ex-Head Boy-“  


“Yes, that’d be the one.”  


“Merlin,” John wheezed, a face that could only be compared the colour of a tomato, “Remind me not to mess with you.”  


Sherlock’s glare quickly found its way from playful to accusatory,  
“I don’t need my brother to fight my battles for me.”  


“No,” John chuckled, “You only need him to fuel your petty motivations.”  


“Ah, Watson, where would we be without our petty motivations?”  


“Merlin knows- and call me John. I’ve been telling you for weeks now.”  


* * *

The whole school was in a state of permanent hustle and bustle on the day of the Gryffindor versus Hufflepuff match, classes were ending early and players were cheered on as they left their morning classes in order to prepare for the afternoon take off. In years previous, Sherlock would have rolled his eyes at such antics and carried on working through the jostle on his daily life, yet, with the new addition of John Watson he couldn’t help the slightest taste of excitement on his tongue. For the first time, he had been formally invited to a game and damn him if he wasn’t going to go.  


_It’ll be good study_, John had told him, _it’s all well and good one on one but you’ll never learn the game if you only play with two people._  


And so at three o’clock sharp he found himself in the Ravenclaw stands as close to the back as possible, with a pair of engraved binoculars hanging around his neck. The game kicked off exactly as planned; he’d found that his heart leaped in anticipation as the teams stood in lines post-warm up. Merlin, he was really losing it- he was enjoying _sports_. Oh, if Mummy could see him now. When the game began, Sherlock was immediately glued to his binoculars, tracing every turn that John made- it wasn’t easy between the speed and the overwhelming amount of red and gold on the pitch, but he’d studied those tufts of blond long enough to find them amongst the rabble.  


He had to admit, it was refreshing to see the Firebolt that he used so frequently to be put to semi-professional use. For what he lacked in intelligence, George made up for in athletic talent. It was clear that John was the one with any form of recognizable brain cells, but they played together like a well-oiled machine that could manage to communicate with the slightest of twitches and nods.  


Sherlock found it difficult to appreciate the ideas of sport in themselves, he found them dull and they seemed to lack any real stimulation; though, it was difficult to be in anything but awe of the well-rehearsed strategy of the Gryffindor team. It was no secret that socialization and teamwork was one of the few things he didn’t excel in and he made sure to wear it like armor, use even his weaknesses to his advantage and keep people away. Such camaraderie seemed so distant from anything he had ever experienced and he’d be a liar to say it didn’t ignite a sense of foreign longing in his chest; it was one of the only times he’d ever wished to be anything but what he was.  


Most of the game had past whilst Sherlock had unwillingly traipsed his way into his Mind Palace and by the time he resurfaced both Seekers were getting increasingly closer to catching the Snitch. It was easy to see the exhaustion on the players' faces and it was only then that he realised the sun had long since disappeared behind the horizon. They had been playing for hours. As if it were planned, at the moment that Sherlock focussed his binoculars onto the pair of Seekers skyrocketing around the pitch, one of them leaned forward with just the slightest edge and brushed the ball with the very tips of their fingers. A quick flash of his eyes to the side was enough to assure him that it was the red and gold player that had made the contact. The game was over and Gryffindor had won.  


Everything after that had been a blur, not that much different from the rest of the evening in total honesty. People had immediately flooded the pitch, if the cheers had been deafening during the game there was no hope now; everybody seemed to have gone downright rabid. It was ridiculous. They were all so dull in the way they swarmed around the victors- yet when his eyes fell on a certain figure he began to empathize with their excitement.  


Team and house alike were holding John Watson on their shoulders, screaming in deafeningly loud chants. It was as if the whole stadium was alive and the boy sat above their heads was some shoddy makeshift heart. When he peered through his binoculars, Sherlock was almost alarmed to see the flames that licked behind John’s eyes. There was happiness, yes- but there was also an unrivaled sense of ferocity that bordered on animalistic, it was chilling, even for someone like himself. He seemed hot to the touch; there was a smile on his face that only made his blackened pupils scream louder. He looked practically insatiable, a fanatical beast. It was the first time that Sherlock had ever associated a certain word with this particular specimen- _dangerous._  


Perhaps John Watson was much more interesting than anyone had given him credit for.  


With that, he packed up his things and left. Quidditch had given him much more to think about than he had bargained for, not that he was complaining. He loved a puzzle and he decided that this one was certainly not going to disappoint.  


* * *

“No, Sherlock, you need to tilt the broom forward when you’re going down. Your body weight isn’t enough, it needs direction. Greg, go back up to the top.”  


He hated this _stupid_ different broom and these _stupid_ flying lessons and Grant’s _stupid_ face it was all so _stupid_ and he was so _ready_ to be done with this godforsaken game-  


“Yeah, alright John, we going for manoeuvre one or?” Garrett’s voice rang out, stagnant breath mingling with the freezing midwinter air. It had long since become too bleak and cold to be practicing under the cover of darkness so they’d recently switched their practice time to early morning; a decision Sherlock was currently rueing. Oh, how he wished he could be like John who so often elected to catnap in the locker room in the spare 45 minutes during breakfast. This, however, did often lead to him being late for his first-period lesson.  


“Best do. Sherlock, are you alright?” There was a tender edge to the blond’s voice that made him want to put up walls as thick as a bank vault, slam the door shut and lock John Watson out for good. Since when had they become so buddy-buddy? Instead of dignifying him with an answer, he decided to just fly up to his starting position, being sure to catch his _buddy_ in the tailwind behind his broom. He was not in a good mood. Had it been any worse, he might have done something about the incessant muttering that rang out from John’s mouth that utterly failed to be discreet.  


“John, are you sure he’s-“  


“Yes, Greg, I’m sure. Now,” he smacked his gloved hands together, a very authoritative action that Sherlock gauged he probably used to garner the attention of his teammates- what a shame it was that Sherlock didn’t conform to that masses. “This time around we’re going to try mixing things up a little bit to see if we can make it any…fuck.”  
Both he and Gary seemed to draw to attention at the way John’s voice faltered off ever so slightly at the end, the soft curse that followed included. It was only with a scan of the field that Sherlock deduced what could be the disturbance to their serenity; a furious looking blonde storming their way across the field at an alarming speed. He had seen that shade before- it could be nobody but John’s sister.  


Or well, perhaps and elusive cousin that he had never heard of, but that seemed particularly statistically unlikely.  


“John Watson!” Her voice managed to come across shrill yet still full of savagery as she entered the grounds, pointing a merciless finger in her brother’s direction, “You get your ass down here now, _you little fucker!_ What the _fuck_ have you been saying about me to mum in those shitty letters of yours-“  


“Yeah, yeah,” Despite having only been in her presence for seconds, John already sounded drained to the core, “I’m coming. Calm it, Harry.”  


“Not quick enough! I’ll fucking calm it when you give me a good damn reason for-“  


“_Harry_,” John’s voice was slight in a way that Sherlock had never heard prior to the current, a sample of the previous danger that had lingered in his comrades' eyes during the match a few weeks ago. He lacked all of the obvious anger that his sister, Harry, was wearing on her sleeve, yet his tone radiated a much darker force that put the pair at unmistakable odds. Grady slid in beside Sherlock, breaking him from his thoughts as John descended towards his family.  


“Oh ghee, here we go again.”  


“What do you mean, ‘here we go again’?” Sherlock snipped in response, partial wicked curiosity and partial genuine concern for the boy now receiving quite the lecture beneath them.  


“John and Harry don’t get along. Merlin, no. Never have, not in the whole time I’ve known them. They mostly avoid the other, but when they’re together they’re never anywhere but at each other’s throats.”  


“Do you know why?”  


“Not sure I’d want to. It’s just how it’s always been. I know that old McGonagall’s been trying to get the pair of them, or at least John, into some kind of counselling for at least a year now. Something to do with home, I think. They stay for Christmas,” Gavin sounded disheartened as he listed off the information that he knew; Sherlock didn’t want to dub him a bad friend, but he had just listed off John Watson’s intimate family problems without a filter. A bit of a bad friend, to be honest, but even Sherlock wasn’t blind to good intent.  


Anyway, it wasn’t like Sherlock needed Grayson to tell him that- it was always useful to have a second opinion. He only missed _some_ of the key points. One look was enough to tell him that it was so much more than a simple dislike, _oh no_, the two despised one and other. Growing up, he’d thought he and Mycroft had a strained relationship but at least they had one; the same could not be said for the Watsons.  


Harry was jealous, that was clear as day, completely and utterly resentful of the champion younger brother. She wished for nothing more to be accepted by their parents, _lesbian then…and an alcoholic_; while stood next to John she thinks she’ll never be seen as anything but a failure.  


Speaking of John, his rage seemed to run just as hot. His whole life he’s been the victim of bullying at the hands of his sister, often forced to take the fall for her major destructive habits throughout their childhood, _abusive childhood_. She’s bullied him for being ‘perfect’ when it’s obvious he’s riddled with insecurity and, although she’s too blinded by hatred to see, her little brother is just as much a victim of their atrocious home life as she. As a result, John has grown to hate her in return, getting older on his lonesome and missing a sister to save him from the cruel actions of the adults in their lives.  


But John has a _secret._  


_Oh, John has a secret._  


In the time that he had spent deducing, the siblings' quarrel beneath them had only elevated. Upon drawing himself back to consciousness, he did not fail to miss the way Harry’s hand swatted at the back of her brothers head with no playful intention, and the way that he dodged slightly out of reflex as blow still lashed his scalp.  


“I’m afraid we're probably done for now, John’ll be a foul mood for the rest of the day,” Gareth sighed pitifully, “Transfiguration is looking _great_.”  


“Why doesn’t he fight back?” Sherlock questioned more to himself than the boy beside him, rolling his tongue between his teeth. “What’s preventing him?”  


“Wish I knew,” Greg mumbled, “Merlin knows, somebody needs to save John Watson.”  


* * *

Maybe, if Sherlock had been better with people and social cues, he wouldn’t be making the choice that he was now- he could only assume that this was a choice that someone with better judgement wouldn’t make. After all, how was he supposed to know the absolute bollocks that went through the average persons’ psyche? _Must be exhausting, constantly having to filter through all that rubbish for any semblance of something relevant._  


He was no stranger to 7th Year Charms, in fact, he’d passed the class in at the beginning of his 3rd year- something as juvenile as that was easier to get done and dusted so that he could make time to advance in other subjects. Oh, nothing quite like Potions and Arithmancy to make the time go by. However, lingering in the halls of Hogwarts between classes never failed to get any less haunting, the gothic architecture was certainly to be marveled at but it was definitely unsettling in the glowering winter sunshine, casting all sorts of mismatched shadows over the almost frosted stone floors.  


He immediately began to settle once students began to pour out of their respective rooms, most preferring to travel in hoards and cliques, flooding the halls all at once with their ceaseless rattling. It never failed to amaze him how in a matter of seconds serene peace could transform into a rabble of discontentment, forcing its way into his mind and dragging it away from all the important things that required his instantaneous attention.  


For once, the masses were what he was interested in; his height was useful in peering over the crowds in his search for a familiar streak of blonde. It was unsurprising to see Harry Watson emerge from her classroom last, complete isolated from the rest of her year. Every inch of her seemed to be laden with edges and spikes, daring the innocent to draw breath in her presence and give her any reason to explode on an unfortunate victim. _So, both the Watsons have anger issues. _  


The most unsettling thing for Sherlock was that, for all he was worth, he couldn’t quite understand why he was putting himself on the line for John Watson. Sure, the boy had offered him kindness and support which was a rarity in the life of either Holmes brother during their collective time at Hogwarts, but it was more than that. He’d come to treasure his time with Watson. _John_. The boy offered him solace from the comings and goings of the rest of the world; he’d dragged Sherlock away to the Quidditch Pitch and let them enter their own world where they were flying high above everything else- even if their feet were planted firmly on the grass. Never before had Sherlock felt such a lack of judgement. The months of mentoring that had transpired between them were infinitely better than any relationship he had encountered to date; the lax jokes and witty comments were all that they needed to fill the void that each of them dragged around daily. But what if he wanted more-  


He couldn’t help but wonder if Mycroft had made their bet with other intentions in mind.  


“Harry Watson,” he began, steeling his voice, “I need to talk to you about John.”  


“Oh, god,” she groaned with malice, head snapping up to bring blue eyes that perfectly mimicked those of her brothers to meet his own, “Don’t tell me your part of his little fan club.”  


“Fan club- no- _what?_ I wanted to talk to you about your relationship,” he quirked a brow, “If you’ve ever heard of me, you should know-“  


“You’re that twerp Mycroft’s little brother, aren’t you? He was meant to be in this year but he graduated early, self-obsessed maniac. But he was Slytherin, that’s for sure. Merlin, if you’re anything like him you can fuck off right now,” Each syllable that left her lips was laced with daggers of ice, she had perfected the art of ‘threatening’.  


“I would prefer not to think about any discussions regarding me and that…twerp,” he paused to cough and tug on his collar, “Now, if we could finally just get on with what I’m here for and stop wasting my precious time I’d be _eternally grateful_.”  


“You little-“  


“Let’s walk, shall we?”  


For a while, all they seemed to do was traipse next to each other in heavy silence, not that he minded, he was perfectly happy to reap the rewards of uncomfortable stillness. Without even casting an eye in her direction, he could see the way the cogs whirring within her mind, the tension building in her posture- she was trying to calculate what to say and by doing that, she was working herself into a state. Lucky him.  


It wasn’t until they reach the lake and they paused to watch the Giant Squid blow bubbles, all of them staggering to the surface, that she finally opened her mouth to drawl out deadened words,  


“I don’t love him. I don’t care about him. I should, but I don’t.”  


“I know, he feels the same way about you,” he lit a cigarette and drew it to his lips once he saw the last student disappear back into the walls, hesitantly offering one to the girl lingering with an air of nervousness next to him. She took it without any hesitation in return, mumbling a quiet _incendio_ and watching the smoke trail into the sky.  


“What is this then, fucking intervention? Why is my relationship with my little brother any bother of yours, Holmes?”  


“If you hate him so much, why don’t you just leave him alone? Isn’t it cruel to torture the unfortunates of life? I wouldn’t know but I’m assuming you would.”  


“Unfortunates,” she scoffed, sending a poisonous glare in his direction, “That little fucker is anything but an _unfortunate_. He’s got everything-“  


“_I’m sorry_ but did you miss the part where your dad punched him too, or?” Sherlock added, sure to engulf it in layers of spite.  


“How the fuck do you know about- fuck you, you Holmes’ are all the same,” she spat, “He’s perfect in his own eyes and everybody else’s, why should I have to put up with that?”  


“Oh, I wouldn’t say that. You obviously don’t excel in the deductions department, best not apply for a job at the Ministry,” he said, pulling the cigarette from his lips and stomping it beneath his boot, “He’s got remarkably low self-esteem for somebody as talented as he is, and even so he’s not perfect. Not even if your parents book. No, I’m afraid he too can hit the Firewhiskey after a particularly long day, not as bad as you of course, but still. Parents wouldn’t approve of that, now would they? And of course, there’s the sexuality, surely you have to have bonded over that at some point- I mean I know they’re not exactly the same, bisexual and a lesbian but-“  


He was stopped instantly when a hand wrapped around his collar and tugged him viciously towards his oppositions face, their eyes only inches apart. She couldn’t pull off danger quite like John could, but there was still menace lingering in the blackness of her pupils.  


“What. The. Fuck.” She growled, an animalistic whine in the back of her throat, “What did you just say about my brother?”  


“Bisexual. Obviously.”  


“Not that obviously.”  


_Oh. Oh no. Sherlock Holmes, you have made a grave mistake. One deduction too many. There goes John’s secret._  


“John…John, he’s not out?” His body was betraying him at an all too rapid rate and his voice began to drip into wavered tones. He rarely made miscalculations but when he did- they were fatal.  


“No,” she positively snarled, “No, he’s not. But he’s going to fucking regret that decision.”  


“But he’s such an open person, his _friends_ must know-“  


“I don’t give a fuck who knows, Holmes. Only that I didn’t. If he let me suffer for…for years-“ Harry pulled away from him in a split second as though he was burning into her fingernails, disgust radiating off of her every feature, “I’m going to make him fucking pay.”  


He was frozen. There was nothing he could do the stop the hastily expanding murkiness in his stomach, his eyes were locked onto the grass in front of him. He’d made a miscalculation and of course, it was going to cost him everything. _Obviously_.  


By the time he came to, Harry Watson was no longer by his side.  


* * *

Under normal circumstances, Sherlock would’ve been relieved to have made it back to the castle and find that nothing had taken place in his absence, yet this time that meant that only worse was to come. _Planning to make a scene then Harry, come on Sherlock, think_. John, he needed to get to John. There was no point trying to stop Harry now, she was Slytherin through and through; if she had her heart set on ruining her brother then there was not much he could do to stop it, he knew that much from growing up with Mycroft. But John would listen, he couldn’t stop Harry but he could save John Watson and right now that was the only thing he could bring his brain to focus on. Every finger, every cog, every fleeting whim was orbiting _him_.  


He would be a liar to say that he wasn’t feeding off of the thrum of adrenaline pulsing through every capillary, forcing its way to his fingertips and seeming to radiate within the air around him. Explosive, that was how he felt, like a bomb ready to go off in the best way possible. It was all so twisted, the way he was thriving off of this, but _he couldn’t help it_. He still felt the wrenching guilt toiling in his stomach- how delightfully human- yet it was perfectly countered by his excitement. Sometimes there was something that felt so right about being so wrong.  


John Watson had promised to be interesting and he certainly had pulled through.  


It was two-thirty; he knew from a previous glance at John’s timetable that he currently had a study period with the rest of his house. Going to be with his Gryffindor lackeys, then. Great, just another social obstacle between him and his target. Sherlock would’ve been a fool when choosing John as his Quidditch mentor to have not taken into consideration the opinion of the rest of his house and, Gryffindor made it no secret that they despised the Holmes brothers with everything they could muster. So far, the only person he’d seen John confide in regarding their regular rendezvous was Gerald and that boy could barely join two dots together. John _cared_ about what people thought, chances are he hadn’t told the rest of his little posse about he and Sherlock’s _relationship_.  


Ignoring the look Madam Pince threw in his direction, he burst into the library at a speed he hadn’t quite accounted for. It didn’t take long to spot the burst of red and gold lounging in the corner, all of them spinning quills between their fingers with lazy smiles on their faces, flirting with girls and just generally getting no work done. John was sandwiched between Gerald and another vaguely familiar face, Mike Stamford, one of the more palatable Gryffindors. He had offered his notes to Sherlock after he had missed the first half of Potions once- it was one of the nicest things anyone had done for him until John. The rest were absolute cretins, assholes and their girlfriends that he could see that John only hung out with out of Quidditch obligation, Gibson and Stamford too.  


_Here goes nothing,_  
“John?” he tried his very best to sound put together, to not let the societal fear creep its way into his voice, “Can I speak to you about…our History of Magic assessment?”  


“Watson? You hang out with that prick? You hang out with Holmes? I never thought I’d see the day-“ A nasal voice gashed its way into his eardrums and offended his brain, that was how he wanted to feel anyway, not the reality of his gut feeling as though it was going to fall out of his mouth.  


“Shut it, Anderson,” John’s voice tore back with all the heat and fire and danger that Sherlock had come to relish since that first Quidditch game, _nobody had ever stuck up for him before_. “Yeah, uh, Sherlock, what do you need?”  


“Do you think that maybe we should talk about this somewhere else?”  


“Listen, it’s fine, they’re just-“  


“_John_,” he made sure to sharpen his tone, “Somewhere else.”  


“Oh, yeah, okay,” John began to fumbled his way from his seat, ignoring the disgustingly delighted teases of his peers behind him, “What’s-“ Before the other boy could finish his sentence, Sherlock grasped his shoulders with all the strength he could muster and began to drag them towards the Restricted Section, doing his best to cancel out John’s confused shouts and the stretch of muscle he could feel beneath the other boys uniform.  


“Sherlock,” John whispered in a sickeningly low tone, “Sherlock, what are we doing here?”  


“John…” he tried to begin, fighting his way through the way his tongue twisted in on itself, “I may have made a big mistake.”  


“Listen, I’m not very good at History of Magic, I don’t know if you noticed.”  


“You absolute idiot,” Sherlock felt the tension bleed from his body ever so slightly, “This isn’t about the homework.”  


“Then what is it? What are we doing here?”  


It was during that moment that Sherlock allowed their surroundings to finally slip into his conscious, the way they stood only centimeters apart, forced together by the shelves of books in every direction. The way that John was leaning forward in an attempt to keep their voices as quiet as possible. The way that John’s eyes were constantly flitting upwards to meet with his own, apprehension blown wide with the unspoken thrill of being somewhere that they weren’t supposed to be, talking about something that they weren’t supposed to. It was only in the murky light that he truly studied John Watson for all that he was- he quickly decided that he didn’t like the way it made him feel.  


“John, I have to warn you about your sister-“ Sherlock found himself interrupted by a short bark of a laugh, explosive in the tense silence that had formed between them.  


“I can handle Harry, Sherlock. I know you think I’m inept but I can handle my sister.”  


“I spoke to her. I may have told her something about you…something that she…_or I_…wasn’t supposed to know.”  


“If you think I give a toss about what Harriet Watson thinks of me then you can't deduce as well as you think you can-“  


“I told her you were bisexual, John.”  


The silence that followed was agony. Sherlock usually thrived on studying people; he would normally consider every twitch of the lip and blink of the eye with rabid enthusiasm- but he couldn’t feel anything but shame as he watched John’s features change from one to another, morph from confusion, to panic, to guilt, to anger all in a matter of seconds. He could practically hear the boy’s teeth grating against each other, and he could feel the faint brush of John’s hand spasming at his side.  


“Sherlock,” Everything about the way he spoke was a warning, thunderous and chancy, dancing on a fine line between composure and absolute chaos, “Why would you tell my sister that? I’m not…_gay_. I’m not…I’m not…”  


“John, it’s okay to be-“  


“NO, IT’S NOT!” The shout echoed around the entire library, sure to bring the hindrance of Madam Pince in easily less than 40 seconds, “It’s not okay, Sherlock,” his words began to slur, “How could you? How could you do this to me? After all I helped you with and you-“  


“I’m sorry, John,” it sounded meager and pathetic as soon as it reached his own ears and Sherlock wished for the words to appear in his mouth, longed for his brain to form the words to make this okay, “It was an accident.”  


“An accident,” he scoffed, an almost deranged smile pulling at his lips, “What kind of fucking accident- Oh Merlin, she’s going to tell mum and mum’s going to tell dad and-“  


“So you are, in fact, bisexual-“  


“Does it matter?” _Dangerous_, “Does it matter if that _was_ the truth or not because _they_ won’t care. Do you have _any idea_ what you’ve done to me?”  


There were no words that he could use to respond to that. Sherlock had studied and learned and calculated for every year of his life, it was all he had ever done and yet nothing he had ever read could prepare him for the blow that the question delivered to his stomach.  


Nearly everything was silent after that, even when Madam Pince finally located them, no doubt hollering the place to the ground at them for placing a footstep where they shouldn’t be. But none of that mattered, he was blind to everything but the moments of the boy opposite him, he found himself deaf to anything to but the heated string of breaths leaving John’s lips. The way John brushed against his body as he forced his way out of the shelves felt like a dozen hot pokers scalding his skin.  


He watched the mop of blond rush out of the library and it took no deduction to see that there were tears pouring down his face.  


* * *

In the hours after their incident, Sherlock did his best to monitor the movements of John around the school, doing everything within his power to ensure the boy didn’t do anything he would regret in the long run. They did, in fact, have History of Magic together that afternoon. It had been downright dreadful to watch John from across the classroom- to study every lifeless breath that stuttered from his lips, to notice the stark red rim that contrasted against the whites of his eyes and the slump of his shoulders as he rested his head against his desk, surely fighting off another heaving sob. Never before had he seen a living breathing person so devoid of any positive emotion- and that was saying something.  


At 3 o’clock, he waited at the Quidditch pitch in a futile attempt to try and catch John at pre-dinner practice. As he thought, futile. There was no sign of the other boy as the Gryffindor team filed into their changing rooms, the only two players to pay him any mind being Mike and Giles- and the look that they gave him was positively poisonous.  
“Mike, Gilbert, please-“  


“It’s _Greg_, and _piss off_. Haven’t you done enough damage today?”  


“You _do_ know about John,” His words were frantic as they left his tongue and he took a moment to correct himself, “I just want to help, I didn’t mean to-“  


“Yeah, doesn’t matter now. Just leave John in peace and let us get on with our practice.”  


After that, they closed the door, leaving him stood alone in the January frost.  


* * *

Dinner. That was when things really came to a head. The moment that he, and he was sure John, had been dreading ever since that morning.  


Across the hall, he had kept his eyes locked onto John as he pushed his food around meaninglessly, neglecting to actually eat any. Every so often, he would bring his sight upwards to scan for any sign of the other Watson who had been yet to arrive at dinner. Nerves were prickling at the end of his fingertips and he wasn’t sure what emotion was bursting inside his chest, but he couldn’t recall ever having felt so strongly about anything. It was awful.  


When she did arrive, Sherlock didn’t need to look hard to find her.  


“JOHN WATSON!” She bellowed, pushing her way through the large oak doors, “You’re in for it, you little shit!”  


The entire hall was focussed on her as she stormed her way around the tables, hundreds of heads following her every move- even the teachers were frozen at an entrance of such malice. The only pair of eyes that remained dead set on their plate were those of the boy in question, his expression stony and unchanging as Harry’s footsteps echoed closer and closer. A few other Gryffindors’ dared to give John and vague elbow, snapping in his direction to try and garner some kind of reaction out of his, equal worry lacing their features.  


Everything changed the moment she came into contact. She reached an arm over his shoulder in a clear attempt to drag him from his place on the bench only to be met with the crunch of John slamming his head upwards in return, smashing her jaw upwards and tearing the first blood from his sister’s upper lip. It became clear that this was not the first time this battle had been fought when it took Harry mere seconds to regain her composure, continuing with her original ploy to drag John from the bench and smacking him harshly onto the stone floor.  


The rest of the school sat awestruck at such a display of violence. It was a rarity that fights broke out and even then, Hogwarts was a school of _magic_. Many students, Sherlock included, had never seen a muggle fight and most seemed to shrink away at the sight, letting out gasps of horror and upset. Even the muggle-born students stared mournfully, not daring to try and step between the bloody engagement.  


The pair jostled on the floor, throwing vicious punches at every inch of body available, taking turns to swipe away the blood that was now flowing freely from the noses and mouths of both parties. Even in the thick fog that seemed to have gathered around Sherlock’s brain, prohibiting any movement, he heard the scream that rang out as Harry seized a plate off of the bench and smashed it over the top of her brother’s head, crimson mixing within the strands of blond. He was quick to get his revenge, however, banging Harry’s head savagely against the bench in return. They bore almost identical looks of grim determination as they scrapped, pushing and pulling back and forth, each returning punches with enthusiastic vigor. It quickly became unclear if more blood was being spilled, there was so much drenching the front of their white uniforms that there was no way to distinguish any kind of progression. It appeared that John was winning, Harry beginning to falter with every relentless blow.  


Nobody was sure how long they had been brawling when the teachers eventually got involved, some of the younger professors using both physical and magical forces to drag the pair out of each other’s grasp, McGonagall staring over them with a look of mixed rage and disappointment. Sherlock felt his stomach roll as he was finally offered a clear glance at John, whose fists, face and shirt were all caked in a thick, almost black, layer of blood. It had been smeared over almost every inch of available skin, causing the frantic blue of his eyes to pop with animalistic prowess. The pair looked positively deadly as they were heaved in opposite directions.  


As soon as both parties were out of sight, the hall erupted into noise, students hysterically conversing with one and other to solidify the image of what their eyes had just witnessed. _Idiots_, Sherlock thought as he tore himself from his bench, quickly following in the direction in which John had been pulled, ignoring the shouts of Mike and Gabriel behind him.  


* * *

Unsurprisingly, they had been escorted to opposite ends of the Medical Wing with teachers placed at almost every available opening. Even from outside he could hear the sound of Professor McGonagall inflicting her wrath on who he presumed to be Harry based on the content of the roars. One deduction later and he was slinking his way around the enclosed garden just outside of the back end of the wing, pushing through various different ice-slicked leaves and jamming his heels into the thick, frozen dirt in a desperate attempt to find the almost invisible slit between the stones of the castle, located somewhere in the area beneath a swooping window. He was quickly thankful that it was dark in the evening as his eyes spotted the slither of light bleeding out over his shoelaces and crouched down as close to the opening as he could.  


“John?” He whispered with quiet resolve, “John, will you talk to me?”  


“_What the fuck_,” Was the only response he got, practically picturing the incredulous look on the other boy’s face, “Sherlock, what are you doing? Just fuck off-“  


“John, _please_.”  


It was silent for a few minutes after that, save the few groans he heard as John attempted to secretly bend himself closer to the gap in the stones. Every second that passed made it harder for Sherlock to pull the oxygen into his lungs, his entire chest had seized up with tension and his ribcage felt as though it was piercing into his spine.  


“Fine, I suppose I can’t get away from whatever you want to say even if I wanted to and I’ve got nothing to do between now and McGonagall- so _fine_, Sherlock. What is it that you are so desperate to say to me?” John’s voice was flooded with bitterness and ever so slightly thick with upset, or, Sherlock dreaded, a broken nose.  


“I’m sorry, John-“ He was cut off by a brutal laugh,  


“Yeah, hate to break it to you but you got to that one already.”  


“I am sorry, John,” Sherlock attempted to regain his composure, talking at a pace so slow it was almost agony, “I acted out of line. I let my head get the better of me and I put you at risk and _that’s not fair_. I outed you and gave your sister access to information that I’m now sure you probably never intended for her to know and if you don’t want to forgive me, I understand. But I want to tell you, if I could go back and change things- I wouldn’t.”  


“Sherlock,” John’s tone had faded from angry to slightly more bemused, sounding slightly further away than before, “I don’t think that’s how this works.”  


“No. I wouldn’t change things because before this you were hiding, afraid of who you are and allowing your, quite frankly, bitch of a sister to dictate your life. You deserve better than that, John Watson,” He felt the emotion begin to climb up his throat, “So I’m sorry that you didn’t get to come out the way you wanted to or if you wanted to at all but I don’t regret what I said or what happened. I meant what I told you in the library, it's _okay_ for you to be bisexual and it’s not okay for you to have to hide who you are because of Harry…but you don’t…now.”  


“Sherlock Holmes,” John’s voice rang out with newfound clarity, “For Merlin’s sake, if you could stop being so dramatic and just look up I’d like to make a point.”  


Sherlock had never been happier to follow instructions. As soon as he cast his gaze upwards, he was met with the _vision_ of John Watson leaning casually in the now open window above his head, backlight with the flickering golden light of the candles inside. There was a lopsided smirk on his, unfortunately, battered face, staring down at Sherlock with a look of pure amusement. Underneath his nose, there were still faint traces of the blood that had been split and there was a faint red slice over the top of his forehead from where Harry had cut him with the smashed plate. Despite all his injuries, he still managed to look incredible. _Damn Gryffindor_.  


“Are you stood on the bed?”  


“Alright, I may have forgiven you but you can’t be a prat straight away,” he paused before sighing and rolling his eyes, “Okay, yes, I’m stood on the bed but even you couldn’t reach up here without standing on something.”  


“Short,” Sherlock let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding, John had _forgiven_ him and that meant that _things were going to be okay_-  


“_Sherlock_,” he warned in a way that could only be playful, “I’m going to say meaningful things now, so listen. I was angry at you, yes, I was furious that you had revealed something about me that I wasn’t, maybe that I'm _not_, even ready to accept myself. The only people I’d told were ones I’d gone to for advice- they tried, but it didn’t make any difference. But spending time with you, well at first it made things much more difficult, but it made it much easier to…accept things, I suppose. So yes, I was angry, but I’m not anymore; not at you. I never thought I’d say this but Harry beating the shit out of me really made me realize that I shouldn’t be afraid of her- _I was punching back_\- and that…well, fuck it. I am who I am and I’ve known it for a long time. I can't promise that all of, whatever internalized stuff I've got going on in my head will go away immediately, but, I want to change,” he finally stopped to inhale deeply, “So thank you, Sherlock Holmes.”  


It was quiet for a while after that; not the torturous silence that had followed after the incident in the library, or the stillness when Harry had been charging towards John, it was peaceful. Neither of them felt pressured to say anything, simply basking in each other’s company as they processed the delicate words passed between them.  


“I know I said you couldn’t reach the window without something to stand on,” John’s voice was filled with almost childlike glee as he broke the silence, “But would you like to try?”  


“Of course,” Sherlock responded, edging towards the glass on the tips of his toes. He placed his palms carefully on the other boy’s shoulders as he began to lean out of the window, ensuring he didn’t gain any more injuries this evening. They met in the middle, lips pressing together in a chase kiss, void of any longing or heat- it was simple. The other boy tasted of slightly stale chocolate and the faintest trace of metallic blood but that all faded as John wrapped his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders, heat radiating from every spot that they connected.  


“I feel like most people’s relationships aren’t as turbulent as this and we’ve been together for less than thirty seconds,” John said, filled with admiration that reflected in the hues of his eyes.  


“Do you care what most people think?”  


“Not in the slightest.”  


Their lips connected again-  


“Wait,” Sherlock paused, “Did you just ask me out?”  


“Depends. Do you want to go out with me?” John’s eyes were fires, burning in the night. Sherlock could see now that they didn’t have to be the raging flame the he had seen on the Quidditch pitch that time, or the inferno that they grew into when Harry was involved- they could be soft flames that licked the blue of his irises and brought nothing but warmth to anyone that caught his glance.  


John Watson was definitely interesting.  


“Yes. I believe that’s the answer you’re looking for.”  


“Well, I wouldn’t say th- hmph.” John was quickly cut off, Sherlock made sure to tug him forwards into another kiss, relishing in the noise that the other boy made as his feet surely left the mattress beneath him.  


“Right, Mister Watson, I never thought I would be talking to you of all people- Mister Watson, _what are you doing?_” McGonagall’s appalled voice rang out through the window and Sherlock felt John freeze under his grasp, suppressing a giggle at the sight that the poor Professor must have been met with.  


“Sherlock,” John practically growled,” Sherlock- get off, you ass! I need to talk to the bitch- WITCH-“  


“WATSON!”  


Sherlock attempted to make a run for it, releasing his grip on John’s shoulders and retreating back into the shrubbery only to realize his fatal mistake.  


“_Oh no you don’t_,” John’s snapped out through gritted teeth, reaching forward to grab Sherlock’s robes and slowly tipping out of the open window.  


* * *

Madam Pomfrey huffed as she scrawled ‘broken arm’ at the bottom of the sheet at the end of the hospital bed, sharing a bemused glance to Professor McGonagall, the pair of them reaching a silent agreement as the boy’s in the bed and chair respectively burst into giggles behind them.  


Things were definitely going to chance for John Watson. It was almost as though he had been _saved_.

**Author's Note:**

> okay, oh my god, this took me a while but this is probably the proudest I've ever been of anything I've written- it's also the longest and the first time I've written anything Sherlock (despite being a fan for YEARS). I know this fandom is probably pretty dead at this point but I don't even care, I had the best time writing this and I'm definitely going to be motivated to write more for this AU.
> 
> What can I say, I love Sherlock and Hogwarts?
> 
> Honestly, if even one other person enjoys reading this as much as I enjoyed writing it then I'll consider it an achievement- and if anyone has any other ideas for this AU then don't hesitate to leave them, I'm already planning on making a little series!
> 
> If you want to go and support me or ask questions on my [tumblr](https://literary-shitstorm.tumblr.com/), that's there. (Currently, the name of my AO3 'Exystacy' and my tumblr 'literary-shitstorm' don't match- but I'm going to change my AO3 after I finish my Percy Jackson series)


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